Mrs. Tippet’s school of life: The teacher who made me fall in love with writing

I don’t remember a thing I learned in fifth grade about math or science or social studies. I know I learned something because I was promoted to sixth grade. But those lessons left no mark on my psyche.

What I do remember is my teacher, Mrs. Tippet, and the impact she had on my life. She dressed as if she had just stepped out of a Norman Rockwell painting. She was tall, and she carried herself like she enjoyed being that way. She wore ladylike lace-up black heels, dark skirts, and white blouses that fell gracefully around her arms. She pinned a little gold watch on her shoulder, which she proudly told us “her darling husband” had given her. Mondays through Thursdays, she’d wear her chestnut hair in braids crisscrossed over the top of her head. Fridays, she dressed up, arranging her hair in an elegant chignon at the nape of her neck, with a gold cameo at her throat.

I loved Mrs. Tippet. I used to invent reasons to go to her desk to drink in her lovely scent, or was it the kindness that surrounded her? Though it was not required, I’d bring my papers to her to examine.

I stood on one foot and then the other, hoping she’d write “Excellent” across the top with her gold-tipped fountain pen. She’d start the capital letter with swirls and flourishes as if it was something really important I had done, so important I should save it – which incidentally, I have done for 60 years, and I still feel proud.

She tolerated no mischief, not that there was much. Most of us did not want to disappoint her; a small group feared her. Of course, John Phillips would whisper to Ronnie Reeves when she was writing on the blackboard or helping someone at their desk. She never raised her voice, but the look on her face was so cold even they could not hold back their regret. Some of us secretly were glad they got what they deserved; some were sorry for them. But we all were relieved we weren’t the ones who froze the room.

She corrected me once, too. We were supposed to make a poster about Veterans Day. Not surprisingly, most drew flags, tombstones, and crosses. All except for Patty Bussen, who drew a large poppy on her paper and colored it deep red. I liked what she did and copied her. Mrs. Tippet walked around the room as we worked. She stopped at my desk and asked me if the design was my own idea. Oh, yes, I assured her. It came right out of my own head. She looked at me for a long time and then walked on. I knew she knew what I had done and was immediately ashamed.

She replaced the cursive charts with our drawings above the blackboard: 28 pictures of tombstones, crosses, and flags – and two with one large poppy drawn in the middle. Patty’s won first place in our room contest. Mine won nothing. So obvious was my theft that I could not wait for Mrs. Tippet to take the pictures down. The shame was punishment enough. I never copied anyone else again – in fifth grade or anytime after. That was one thing I remember from fifth grade: Dishonesty has its own reward.

The other thing Mrs. Tippet taught me was never measured on an end-of-year achievement test, either. We would come in from recess all hot and sweaty, still thinking about whom we’d next pick at kickball or how many times we could double-jump next time we played outside. She would have us lay our heads down on our desks. I know now it was a ploy to settle us down for the afternoon’s work. To me, it was the best part of the day. She would read us stories of grand adventures from all over the world.

One series featured Martin and Osa Johnson, who traveled through Africa, exploring wildlife. I imagined Martin had big feet just like my dad’s, and Osa had chestnut hair that crisscrossed her head just like Mrs. Tippet’s. In those 20 minutes, with our heads on our desks in a small Midwestern town, we traveled to faraway places and met fascinating people. It was in the upstairs classroom with no air conditioning that I understood the powerful images that words could make.

As I grew up, I secreted poems in a black notebook and recorded stories of the people and region around me. At first, they were just the bumblings of a preteen mind, but eventually, I could use the power of words to weave stories for others to read. Today, I’ve published hundreds of articles and written 15 books all because of Mrs. Tippet and those 20 minutes after recess.

I am now far older than Mrs. Tippet was teaching our fifth grade class. My hair is grayer, and my clothes are more out-of-date than hers ever were. Yet her influence endures. She touched something in me that was already there; she helped me realize it. “Be magnanimous,” she’d say. At class reunions, I’d see this actualized.

In the gallop to press children to blacken the correct circles in society’s expectations today, I hope students find an educator who is their generation’s Mrs. Tippet, a teacher who opens their eyes to what they are and could yet be. I know she would be pleased and write “Excellent” across their lives in swirling capital letters with her gold-tipped fountain pen.